


Just like Betty Crocker

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aprons, Dean Winchester Loves Pie, M/M, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 05:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16130276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I just wanted to write a story where Sam bakes Dean a pie wearing nothing but a frilly apron. If that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.





	Just like Betty Crocker

Why couldn't Dean have liked cake?

Seriously, it would have been so much easier. He could have gotten a boxed mix and a can of frosting and have been done hours ago. Whoever had come up with the phrase, "Easy as pie"? Totally lying. Liar, liar pants on fire. 

It should have been easy. How hard could it be? (famous last words). It was Dean's birthday. Dean loved pie. Sam would make a pie. You could find directions for how to do anything on the internet these days. He'd found a recipe with a detailed tutorial, lots of pictures. Three hours and four batches of dough later, he still hadn't managed to transfer an intact pie crust to the pie tin like it showed in the picture. Then there had been the batch of dough where he'd managed to mistake the salt for the sugar, despite each being in well labelled containers. He was beginning to wonder if the bunker kitchen was cursed. 

As he'd worked, the kitchen had grown hotter and hotter, and he'd lost more and more layers. First he'd had to do some dishes to clean before he could start. That's when he'd lost his flannel layer, sleeves wet with dishwater. Then there'd been the flour all over the place, not sure how that happened, but his jeans had ended up just caked in flour, so he'd pulled them off. His t-shirt was totally stained with cherry juice from pitting the cherries for the filling and off soaking in cold water in hopes of getting those stains out. Then he'd had to do more dishes because his so far fruitless efforts had dirtied too many bowls. That had gotten his boxers wet and those obviously had to come off. As hot as it was in here, the big industrial range and oven had been preheating for hours now. He'd totally get chaffed with wet shorts. Swamp ass was a real possibility, so he'd ditched the boxers. 

Since things weren't working like they should, Sam went back to his trusty lap top, did some more research. He figured out that his crusts weren't working because it was too damn hot. He poked around. Found that yes, the Men of Letter did have a marble slab, recommended all over the internet for pastry work. He scrubbed it real well, with salt too, because God knew what kind of spell work it might have actually been used for. Then he tossed it in the freezer for a while, just to be on the safe side. 

Once he'd rolled his crust out on the chilled marble slab, it came out perfect. Okay, so maybe the crimping on the edges was a bit shabby, but it hadn't torn, not even a little. 

But then he had to think about the filling. The directions had him cooking the cherries and sugar and some other stuff on the stovetop in a pan before pouring into the crust. The front of the range was rather hot. He needed a little protection for his...important parts. So when he scanned around the bunker kitchen and saw the apron, he grabbed it. 

It didn't give him nearly as much coverage as he would have liked. It was one of those fancy, frilly white half aprons, trimmed with a little lace, like you'd see tied over Betty Crocker's shirt dress. But it was better than nothing and better than taking the time to go in search of some clean clothes, now that he was on a roll. He poured in the cornstarch and water mixture like the directions said, and before he knew it, the cherry filling had thickened up nicely. He got the whole thing into the oven in a few minutes after that and got to work, cleaning up the kitchen disaster he'd made. 

Dean, he was funny. You'd think a guy like him wouldn't care about the state of the kitchen. They'd practically been raised by wolves. The two of them were all but feral. But no, Dean, now that he'd nested into the bunker, was a massive neatnik and had a freaking heart attack if you left dirty dishes just sitting around. And Sam, he'd gotten pretty much every bowl and measuring cup and spoon the bunker kitchen had dirty, just making the one pie. He scrubbed and scoured while the pie bubbled and baked in the oven. Soon, a delicious sugary, fruity scent filled the kitchen. Even Sam, who didn't care much about pie one way or the other, except that Dean loved it, had to admit that it smelled pretty damn good. 

About fifty minutes later, Sam was bent over, peering into the oven, unselfconscious about his bare ass sticking right up into the air, trying to determine if the pie was done or not. Then he heard the sounds of footsteps in the corridor just outside of the kitchen. 

"Honey, I'm home!" Dean called out, just before he stepped into the nice, shining clean kitchen.

Sam had the pie gripped in oven mitts when he stood up. It was a gorgeous pie, just dripping a little bubbling, red filling between the lattice top, cherry scented steam whisping from the top. 

"Sammy? You made me a pie? Really?" Dean asked, the grin on his face bright enough to outshine the polished stainless the kitchen was outfitted in.

God, he was unbelievably gorgeous when he smiled like that, Sam thought. He'd gotten a haircut while he was out and hadn't forgotten to shave that morning. Dean had been out investigating a case that was relatively local to them, and he was wearing his suit still, the blue one, with the red and white stripped tie that was actually Sam's but always seemed to end up around Dean's neck. He was carrying his jacket and had the sleeves of his pristine white shirt rolled up, exposing his muscular forearms. He never told Dean, because he knew Dean was more comfortable in his flannels and jeans, but he found Dean just about irresistible in a suit. 

Sam put the pie on the counter and straightened up, not realizing that was a strategic mistake. The pie had provided a little camouflage. It had hidden Sam's sudden erection, now more visible than ever with the thin white cotton of the apron making it seem more naked than mere nudity would have.

"Look at you, Babe," Dean said, his grin now massive. He wrapped his arms around Sam and one of his strong hands pulled Sam's face down, though he hesitated before the kiss. "Never thought you'd make such a pretty, good little housewife. You're like an x-rated Betty Crocker. You've made me a tasty, delicious something I can't wait to get my mouth around."

Sam felt himself flush a little. This wasn't their normal dynamic. Yeah, they both switched, officially, but even when Sam was on the bottom, Sam was the dominant one of the pair. He topped from the bottom, without a doubt. But now, Dean coming across him all but naked like this, and freaking domestic, baking a pie, for God's sake. It was embarrassing. And freakishly hot too, for some reason. He let Dean pull him down deeper into a meltingly hot kiss, and then push him against the counter top, thrusting his wool clad hips against Sam's cotton covered dick. 

"And you made me pie too," Dean whispered.


End file.
